


Hyacinth Threefold

by Nyanoka



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Brief rimming, Crossdressing Kink, Face-Sitting, Gender Issues, Genderplay, Internalized Biphobia, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, M/M, Sexual Roleplay, Stockings, Stream of Consciousness, Threesome - M/M/M, Tongue Piercings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:14:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23768314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyanoka/pseuds/Nyanoka
Summary: Tonight, Leon asks both of them to dress as women would, and as these matters often do, the situation escalates.
Relationships: Dande | Leon/Masaru | Victor, Dande | Leon/Masaru | Victor/Nezu | Piers, Dande | Leon/Nezu | Piers, Masaru | Victor/Nezu | Piers
Kudos: 22





	Hyacinth Threefold

**Author's Note:**

> The inexplicable thing where my 3P pairs tend to be more wholesome overall than the 2P ones. Though I think this one is a rather "messy" fic. Well for me anyway. For me, I headcanon Leon as having a high preference for traditionally feminine woman with vaginas (pardon the language, but it's the best way I can describe it, as crass as it is without coming off as exclusionary) with an incredibly small leaning towards men. For me, it isn't a "50/50 split" at all.
> 
> It's rather "messy" considering what the pair and setting is, but I prefer it that way. It's not "clean," but I've never liked writing those sort of things.

From his spot on the edge of the bed, Leon hears another clatter from the bathroom—probably a hairbrush or a can of hairspray—and then the sounds of barely stifled laughter, and he shifts awkwardly.

He’s still not quite sure how he ended up in this sort of situation. It is not uncertainty about the sex or the rather _particular_ specifics of it. He knows the reason for why he’s currently sitting on Piers’s bed—it is the practicality of the location—and the basis of everything else.

The details of that—of everything—are simple enough to summarize. He’s in a relationship, a new one at that, and in the frankest terms, he had been the one to ask for sex tonight. As awkward of a subject as that had been to broach, it still isn’t the problem, the source of his discomfort.

It is not his first relationship or even his second. He isn’t inexperienced in that particular matter. That isn’t the problem either.

Rather, his problems lie in the genders of his partners tonight.

He isn’t against dating men—he knows his own inclinations—but still, they aren’t his normal preference. He still prefers women by a rather large margin. He knows his own preferences: women with slender builds and stereotypically demure demeanors and feminine attire—long, light-colored hair with made-up faces, with fair, delicate skin; and with wardrobes ranging from spaghetti strap summer dresses to pastel blouses layered atop lengthy, flowing skirts and high heels or perhaps wedge sandals with thin straps adorned by tiny, golden buckles.

He doesn’t date—or more accurately, he hasn’t dated—men.

It’s not a personal distaste—despite Sonia’s jests about his taste in fashion, he is capable of appreciating aesthetics—but merely a matter of preference.

Men simply do not arouse his interest as much as women do.

The click of a bathroom door stirs him from his thoughts, and the bed shifts as a weight sits down beside him. Faintly, he smells the scent of almond blossom mingled with jasmine and vanilla.

“Piers is gonna take a bit longer. He still needs to unscrew the rest of his piercings,” Victor says, crossing his legs, left over right, and drawing attention to his stockings, lace coyly running underneath a navy-blue skirt.

“He’s taking them out?”

“Mmhmm. You don’t like a lot of piercings, right?”

Leon shakes his head at that. He doesn’t quite care for anything beyond the standard ear piercings. But still, he hadn’t really expected Piers to take them out.

“Don’t worry too much about it. He doesn’t really mind takin’ them out,” Victor says. “Though, how do I look? Am I cute?”

It is a bit of an exaggerated spectacle, overly girlish, when Victor tilts his head—brown bangs falling slightly out of place—and bats his eyelashes. His hair is styled differently tonight, more of an intentionally messy bob than the plain, straight, and near-shoulder length style that he normally prefers.

“You are,” he replies earnestly. It isn’t a lie. It is a rather large understatement really, lacking in the complexities he wants to speak, but at the very least, it is inoffensive—incapable of drawing ire.

But still, there is a certain charm to him as he is now—flowy skirt with a white bowed blouse tucked into the hem and cream-colored lace covering his pale, toned legs. A cashmere scarf wraps around his neck.

He’s cute, endearingly so, and at a glance, almost indistinguishable from a girl. His voice isn’t all too low—it’s rather androgynous really—and his face still retains a vestige of softness, lacking almost entirely in the sharpness of adulthood.

The only real telltale sign of his sex is the slight swell of the larynx, but it disappears quickly enough when Victor adjusts his scarf, blue cloth settling like waves upon the shoulders and upon the delicate, white collarbone.

As Victor is now, he isn’t quite sure if he would have been pick him out off of the street. All and all, he looks no different from the young women he sees roaming Galar during the springtime, elated by the freedom proffered by spring break and dragging their boyfriends along hand in hand.

It is a bit uncomfortable really.

“Are…are you really okay with this, Vic—”

“You can call me Yuuri tonight if you want,” Victor interrupts. “Really, I don’t mind. Piers does sometimes whenever we do this sort of thing.”

Leon hadn’t known that—he had assumed that they hadn’t done this before—but he doesn’t know a lot about them really, not in their current context and with the freshness of everything anyway. He only really knows Piers as a friend—as a former rival and as a former coworker as well—and Victor as his brother’s best friend.

He doesn’t know them as partners.

It’s new, the sentimentality, the intimacy, and the affectionate expressions—kisses ranging from chaste to passionate, fingers stroking through his hair and untangling knots, and a plethora of other actions, both minuscule and substantial.

He doesn’t know them as they all are now.

It certainly doesn’t help that he had been the one to encroach upon their relationship, worming his way in and disrupting it near-entirely.

It is a peculiar awkwardness, one submerged in strangeness yet not entirely unwelcomed.

Victor continues, painted lips quirked upward and eyes alight in mischief, “Though, Piers usually doesn’t dress up. He just lets me fu—”

Another click of the bathroom door then.

“You don’t have to tell him that, Yuuri,” Piers says, running a hand through his hair.

Unlike Victor, Piers couldn’t quite pass entirely as a woman, not from the front anyhow. The angles of his face are a bit too strong, too angular even with the makeup and contouring, and his voice runs low, too husky to even be remotely considered feminine. Even a smoker wouldn’t be able to reach that pitch, not without hacking and coughing—breathy and spittle-filled and wholly unlike the distinctive, natural thrum of a man’s voice, heavy and rhythmic as a drumbeat.

But still, he couldn’t say that Piers looks awful. Rather, it is a striking sort of appearance, one blurring the line between sensual and casual.

There is a certain appeal in how the button up skirt hangs from his narrow hips—dark cloth running to midthigh and accentuating the whiteness of his legs and the floral pattern pantyhose—and in the bareness of his shoulders, a consequence of the off-shoulder top. A simple cloth choker runs around his neck, hiding the prominent Adam’s apple.

Standing in front of Leon, Piers runs his hand again through his loose hair. Tonight, it’s straightened—lacking in its normal messiness and framing his cheeks. A deep red stains his lips, and rather than the normal blue of his eyeshadow, a light red; almost pink, dusts his eyelids, accentuating the fairness of the skin and the dark, sculpted arches of his eyebrows.

“Do I look alright? Not too bad?” Despite the ambiguity of the question, Leon knows that it is directed solely at him.

After all, he had been the one to ask for this—femininity instead of masculinity.

Much like with Victor, his words are rather plain, trite yet truthful. There isn’t much else he could say without stumbling—perhaps offending or lying with exaggerated fallacies as well. He doesn’t know how to compliment a man.

Should one call a man beautiful? Pretty or fair as a temperate morning? Or would it be handsome or dashing or perhaps some other antiquated phrase? Could it convey the extent of everything—the myriads of conflicting feelings, thoughts, and the very breadth of being and yearning?

Could one describe a man in such a way without drawing offense? Through the splendor of a summer’s day? Or perhaps in the way the eyes shine, pleasing as the shimmering scales of a swimming fish? Or further still, could one compliment the softness of a man’s hair—ruffled as fowl feathers in mid-March—and speak on the simple quietness of his breath, calming and gentle as a lullaby?

Would it draw offense? Ire, discomfort, or rage even?

Is it an allowable offense?

There is a particular darkness, a bud of violence in these words, in the what-ifs and in the way it tickles upon his tongue, near-blooming.

In his opinion, it is easier to speak to a woman in these particular circumstances.

One could simply say what he wants. If one admires a woman’s hair, he could speak, compare it to strands of sunlight or to flowering jasmine vines. If one admires a woman’s smile—dimpled cheeks flushed rosy pink—he could compare it to a turning sunflower or the dimples themselves to a ripe peach.

In that manner, it would be easy enough to draw a woman’s flattered laughter and her finely manicured fingers—white-tipped instead of the colors that his partners prefer—to his hands.

One could not do that with a man, not without considerable contemplation.

And so, much like he had with Victor, he holds his tongue, dams the flow of words.

“You look fine,” he says.

It is a frivolous sort of statement—one decidedly worth less than the air it takes to utter it—but nonetheless, Piers nods, satisfied, before drawing closer. Beside him, he feels the shift of the bed and a pair of calloused hands—so very unlike that of a woman’s despite his state of dress—on his bicep, rounded fingernails pressing slightly into the bare flesh.

Even without his jacket, he feels heat of Victor’s touch, ten pinpricks of warmth taking root and upheaving reason as a cypress tree would and the press of his lips upon his neck, soft and searing and sweetly, deceptively girlish in their hesitance.

Fingertips—nails dark instead of the magenta Victor wears—trace upon his cheek, a weight presses comfortably against his clothed groin, and a hand rests upon his shoulder as Piers leans forward, left knee upon the bed and between his legs and with his right leaning against the edge, and the flick of a tongue brushing lightly against his bottom lip.

It is a slow sort of affair, dither comparable to a teenager’s first tryst, and it—the pretense—ends just as quickly, more flurry than fumbling inexperience.

The snap—it couldn’t be called a playful nip—of teeth at his neck, nails, both black and magenta, digging into and dragging along like the teeth of a plow upon his arms and the light sting that accompanies the reddening marks, each akin to a line of upturned dirt, and the push of a wet tongue into his mouth, invasive and aggressive and wholly unshy.

Alongside the click of bumping teeth and the feel of cool metal—he almost bites down by accident when a stud pushes against the underside of his tongue—it is entirely unlike kissing a woman.

There is no gentleness in it, both in movement and in the sensation, a wild roughness. His lips are too firm—not unpleasant but simply lacking in that characteristic softness women have—and his hand, the one on his cheek, overly demanding. Piers’s fingertips push against his cheek and the pad of his thumb presses upward underneath his chin, turning his face and urging him to deepen the kiss.

Leon feels the sting of teeth once more as Victor bites down again—just enough to bruise rather than to draw blood—and the swirl of a tongue against his neck and the distinctive pressure of suction. A hand, Victor’s, pushes underneath his shirt, and nails trail, hurried and scraping against his side.

It isn’t like lying with a woman.

Instead, he feels the rush of passion—forceful, needy, and leading. There is no wait, no need to goad or to incite. It comes naturally, high tide instead of low.

But still, he couldn’t say that he is entirely free of blame, entirely passive and demure.

Not when he grabs at Piers’s hips with his hands, lessens the distance between them to none— fabric rubbing against fabric, his fingers hooking underneath the skirt’s hem—and ruts upward and against his inner thighs and ass.

He doesn’t need to be gentle with either of them, not truly. There is no need, not when Piers grind downward, just as enthusiastic, and the way Victor’s nails dig into his bicep and the side of stomach and his teeth into the flesh of his neck.

Aggressive, incredibly eager, and entirely unlike the women he has been with so far.

That is how he would describe everything—the bruising wetness on his neck, the metal sliding against his teeth and the walls and roof of his mouth, and the roughness of the palms.

When they pull apart, breathy and gasping, Piers doesn’t apologize. He only gives an explanation in that deep, hushed hum of his—each word drawing attention to the red of his lips, now smeared instead of pristine.

“Didn’t want to have to risk re-piercin’.”

Leon almost expects another kiss then—Piers isn’t one to wait normally—but instead, he turns a bit, intentionally bumping his thigh against the erection below and moving away from Leon’s hands, before tapping Victor’s shoulder, hand having slipped from Leon’s cheek. Upon his touch, Victor’s mouth stills and then leaves, parting with a playful pop, and his hand moves from underneath his shirt.

The bed creaks as Victor leans forward and towards Piers. It is an expected sort of movement—benign and almost-tentative when compared to their earlier frenzy—but much like before, the moment quickly dissipates.

Swiftly, Victor presses his hand into Leon’s thigh and lifts himself upward and partially onto his lap. They aren’t particularly heavy nor is he especially feeble, but still, there is a bit of discomfort, an ironic consequence of their current closeness.

Another shift as both Victor and Piers readjust themselves, knees bumping against his thighs and hands placed on his shoulders for balance. It is an entirely awkward position, not especially titillating, but still, he doesn’t stop them, curiosity perked.

He almost wants to question them, but they move before he can—hands now groping at each other, tugging roughly at hair and slipping underneath silk, with lipstick smearing, a mix of red and pink upon pale skin.

Even with the slight discomfort of their combined weight upon his lap, he feels the blood rushing downward and the strain against his pants.

It is an intentionally provocative display. He’s certain of that. Even without their explicit attention, he feels how their legs bump and rub against his erection, how they lean, squirming, against his chest, and how their hair grazes against his skin: against his neck, his cheeks, anywhere uncovered by cloth. It is too frequent to be coincidence.

The smell of their perfume—light vanilla now intermingled with the distinctive smell of sweat and agitation—drifts, overpowering his senses, as they shift upon his lap. He sees the flash of magenta in Piers’s hair, digits forceful and pulling, and Piers’s fingers—fingernails dark against the white—loosening the bow of Victor’s blouse, revealing the pastel pink of his brassiere, before they plunge into the left cup to play with a nipple.

On the kiss itself, it is a rough sort of affair, rougher than the one he had shared with Piers before. It’s biting, saliva dripping slightly and teeth nipping at lips and pulling enough to arouse whimpers, moans, and the barest, muffled calls of “Yuuri.”

It is an obscene sort of spectacle, one that’s only heightened by the way that their skirts fall, raised instead of near-flat, and the peek of stained white lace underneath.

When they finally separate, saliva dripping and lips marked, it is with a sigh, breathy and more for show than anything else.

Another pause, brief, before they move once again, with hands pushing underneath his shirt and fingers nudging at his belt buckle, metal clinking, before teeth meet his neck once more and another tongue brushes softly against his bottom lip.

Victor, unlike Piers, kisses more like a woman—pensive and waiting rather than wildly willful. There is the distinctive pause—the paradoxically eager reluctance, the slight tremble of the body underneath his fingertips, and the flick of the tongue, a request for permission.

Naturally, it’s all a lie, a half-truth and a part of the fantasy. He feels how Victor’s nails scrape at his chest, fingers curling slightly in impatience, and remembers the noise—the disquiet and the fury of mere moments—still simmering underneath.

He isn’t a woman despite their pretenses, and there is a certain strangeness in that, in everything concerning he and them.

But still, he abides it well enough, opens his mouth even as he pulls the scarf, disheveled and fabric stretched, away and tosses it.

It is a sweet sort of kiss, or rather, it should have been.

Victor tenses when he pulls him forward—nails digging into the small of his back, noses near-bumping in his haste, and tongue forcing itself into a warm mouth—before he feels the same eagerness of earlier. Nails hurriedly scrape along the dark skin of his chest, pass the trimmed hairs, and grope at his nipples, twisting and rubbing against the nubs. A bulge rubs against his stomach, soft silk and stained lace grinding against the skin.

There is a fervor to it, a violent zeal stymied only by the awkwardness of their current position and by the teeth upon his neck, faint specks of pain melding into pleasure. He couldn’t quite move as much as he would like to, not with the weight upon his lap.

It isn’t something he dislikes necessarily—another sign of deviance perhaps—but he finds a particular thrill in it. It is in the way Victor’s tongue glides along his teeth—incisors to cuspids and eventually to the molars—and pushes against the roof and walls of his mouth and against his own tongue. It is in the way Victor’s teeth nip slightly against his lip and the tip of his tongue, careful to only tease and not to harm.

He doesn’t think much of it when the pressure on his neck lightens, dissipating, and when the weight upon his knee disappears—too immersed in his current activities. Instead, he leans into into the kiss, hands slipping into Victor’s skirt all the while—fingers pushing pass the waistband, pass the lacy hem, and then squeezing at the round flesh of his ass, digits pressing lightly at the opening.

Once more, Victor shifts—knees now digging into Leon’s thigh, almost kneeling—and he lifts himself up further, forcing Leon to tilt his head back to continue the kiss. It is not a particularly painful endeavor nor is it especially uncomfortable—no more than their previous position anyhow—but still, he doesn’t think much about the change. He only pushes his hands further into Victor’s skirt, fondling at his balls and his cock alongside his ass. Perhaps he overstretches the skirt’s hem, but Victor doesn’t seem to mind all much, receptive and noisy—whining almost—as he is. Victor only pushes back against his fingers.

Busy as he is currently, he doesn’t think much about the bed shifting, creaking and lightening in weight.

Not until he feels a pair of hands, Piers’s, settle on his knees before moving to finally undo his belt and then the buttons and zipper of his pants. It is a swift, impatient sort of gesture—no foreplay at all—when he feels his boxers pulled down and a mouth descend upon his hard cock.

He’s noisy. He’s certain of that, feels it in the way that Victor pulls lightly at the hair upon his chest alongside his nipples and in the low, vibrating laughter around his cock. They’re both overly teasing, more playful than malicious.

A tongue slides up the length of his cock—metal stud unbearably cool against the heated flesh—and another noise, muffled and unintended, escapes his mouth.

It isn’t like he could prepare himself against their affections either. Both Victor and Piers are rather erratic in their attentions. Hands grope at his chest, at his stomach, and at the base and head of his cock—anywhere that their hands could reach—and a mouth trails both kisses and wetness.

Piers isn’t particularly predictable in his ministrations, not that he could discern all too much with Victor’s attention on him as well. Instead, it is a mixture of pokes and prods—sometimes cool metal, sometimes simply the fleshy tip of his tongue—grazing teeth, a sliding, wet tongue, and kisses: some along the length, others at the head, and others still upon the slit of his cock, tongue lapping at the leaking opening.

It is near-excruciating when Victor separates from their kiss and slides his tongue from the corner of his lip, down his chin, and to the mid of his neck, tongue stilling atop the swell of his larynx before nipping lightly with his teeth again.

Another noise escapes him when Piers presses his stud against the slit of his cock before engulfing it in his mouth.

It’s rather overwhelming really, the plethora of sensations, both small and large: the creaking of the bed, the faded scent of perfume—vanilla and jasmine now almost entirely replaced by the stench of sweat and sex—and the physical, hands trailing from his nipples to his sides, saliva and sweat mixing, and wet upon flesh.

He almost wants to cum really. There is the familiar bud of pressure in his stomach, curling and near-blooming, but still, he can’t, not when Piers squeezes at the base of his cock—hand encircling the flesh—and lifts his mouth with Victor following suit, teeth and tongue leaving. Victor's hands soon follow suit, slipping from underneath Leon’s shirt and moving to sit upon his shoulders.

“How do you wanna do this?” Victor asks, breath tickling his neck. “You aren’t really used to being with men, right?”

“I…what do you mean?” Perhaps it makes him a bit slow, but he doesn’t quite want to assume Victor’s meaning, not entirely. He has an inkling of it—it is sex after all—but it’s easier for someone else to say it, for it to be someone else’s offer than his own.

There is no responsibility in that.

“Do you want to fuck us, or can we fuck you?” A bit blunt, but he doesn’t expect anything else from Piers. He isn’t one to mince words. “We don’t really mind either way.”

A silence descends then, mildly awkward. Leon hadn’t really thought that far. Of course, he had assumed there would be sex, anal to be more exact, but the exact details had escaped him, had been something he had pushed to the back of his mind and filled in the blanks for.

Naturally, he had assumed he would top—that is how his previous relationships had gone—but now, there is a strangeness, an almost-curiosity, to it, to the thought of choice.

He isn’t particularly sure, not as much as he should be anyhow.

It should be an easy matter to decide, but it isn’t.

“I want to do it.” His words are shakier, less certain than he’d like, but both Victor and Piers nod at his words anyway.

The bed creaks again as Piers raises himself from the floor, hand pressing downward against the sheets, and onto the mattress and as Victor leaves his lap. It is a slow sort of motion, but still, there is a peculiar headiness to the sound, akin to an overindulgence of wine.

The squeak of the bedsprings and the rustle of the drawer shouldn’t ring in his ears as they do.

He shouldn’t be as curious as he is, but nevertheless, he finds his lips moving anyway, just as Victor—lube loosely held in hand—lifts Piers’s skirt.

He shouldn't ask, but he does.

“C-can we switch?” He shakes his head when Victor offers the bottle to him. “No, I mean…can you fuck me?”

The request shouldn’t be as embarrassing as it is, but it burns nonetheless, dyeing his cheeks dark as the remains of their lipstick, scattered and smeared upon their flesh and upon his own—twin pink and red upon the sides of the neck, pale blush upon the larynx, and faint flickers of scarlet upon his cock.

“You sure?”

Leon nods. He doesn’t quite want to repeat himself, not with this particular matter.

Though, he doesn’t quite receive a response, a verbal one anyhow. Instead, he finds himself pushed onto his back and with Victor straddling him, knees astride his neck and mindful as to not put his full weight down.

Despite his growth over the years, Victor isn’t particularly heavy or particularly large. Rather, he trends on the smaller side for his age, smallness only accentuated by current choice of clothing.

Nonetheless, there is a quiet forcefulness to his actions when Victor raises his skirt and leans forward, pushing his crotch against Leon’s mouth. Even with the layer of lace—albeit rather stained at this point—he tastes the faintest hint of salt as his tongue prods and licks at Victor’s dick.

It isn’t quite a familiar experience, not quite analogous to pleasuring a woman, but still, the reaction from Victor is familiar enough—breathy, panting, and thighs quivering, lace pattern scratchy and rubbing against the skin of his neck and chin.

Below, Piers pulls at his pants and boxers, sliding them down to his ankles, and he hears the pop of a bottle’s cap before cool, slicked fingers poke at his opening, just enough for a fingertip to slip in. At the intrusion, he couldn’t quite help but tense, eliciting a murmur from Piers.

“Relax a bit. It’ll hurt less if you do.”

He doesn’t receive another response. Instead, Piers only presses another finger against his asshole. It isn’t quite as comfortable or smooth of a motion as he would like—he’s still too tense for that—but it is, at the very least, better than Piers’s first attempt.

Above him, Victor shifts away from his tongue, raising himself up carefully before settling once more, now facing Piers and near-sitting upon Leon’s face. Despite his new position, Victor still trembles, nerves agitated and panting audible.

Perhaps it is mean of him—a jest stirred by momentary mischief—but he swiftly places his hands upon Victor’s thighs and pulls him back downwards before licking at the underside of his balls, at the clothed crease.

Noisy and riled. That is how he would describe Victor’s reaction as he begins to buck downward. It is a mix of surprise and delight and eagerness, one only heightened when Leon pulls the cloth to the side to lick at the sweating flesh, salt mixed with heat and hints of musk.

Though, he couldn’t quite describe himself as any different, any less noisy, even with his voice muffled as it is—not with the way Piers’s fingers move inside him, prodding and searching and curling as they are, and his hand squeezing slightly along the length and upon the base of his cock.

His fingers aren’t entirely pleasant—he isn’t quite used to being fingered—but still, he couldn’t say he especially dislikes the sensation either.

Victor bucks once more before pushing downward again, and Leon presses his tongue against the underside of his balls before dragging it upward to his asshole. His nails dig into the fabric of Victor’s stockings, keeping Victor in place even as he squirms at the intrusion—voice high and keening and akin to an animal in heat and hands grasping below at the sheets and at Leon’s hair, tugging at the dark strands as one would to a horse’s reins.

However, he isn’t all too far behind in imitation either, not when Piers’s fingers press against a particular spot.

Another press and a slight curl of the fingers and another noise—he isn’t quite sure if it’s him or Victor at this point—before Piers withdraws his fingers, and he feels a hardness press against his entrance.

It is a wordless sort of act—no reassurance or verbal warning, only nails running lightly along the length of his cock—when Piers enters him, and Victor begins bucking again, Leon’s grip on his thighs having relaxed momentarily.

He finds himself wrapping his legs around Piers’s waist, and his nails digging back into Victor’s clothed thighs, ruining the stitching further.

Much like with kissing, they’re both rather rough, fully unlike what their attires—albeit currently disheveled—would suggest. There is a certain vigor in how Piers thrusts into him—quick, harsh, and domineering with skin slapping again skin and nails digging into his hip—and in how Victor grinds downward against his face, his mouth, and his nose with just enough control to avoid an undesired (and most likely, incredibly awkward) trip to the hospital.

With each thrust, Piers’s pantyhose and the silk of his skirt rubs against his inner thighs and with each motion downward, the lace of Victor’s stockings and undergarments brush against his cheeks and chin, scratchy and stained wet from sweat, spit, and pre-cum.

They’re all rather ruined at this point—in both appearance and being—but neither of his partners seem to care all too much. Instead, their movements are frantic, desperate and hurried and speed only increasing with each thrust.

Not that he minds all too much. Even with hand upon his cock and the hands tugging at his hair—pulling just hard enough to spur a bit of pain rather than tear the roots—he finds a certain, almost deviant pleasure in it. Instead, his grip on Victor’s thighs only tightens—hands pressing against flesh, nails digging in, and flesh bruising.

Another thrust downward against his face, balls pushing against his lips and tongue, before he feels Victor lessen in his motions, hands loosening from their grip in his hair and body now leaning forward. Piers soon follows suit, bending forward with his dick still sheathed inside and balls pressed against Leon’s rear.

It is a sloppy sort of kiss, wet with teeth only briefly nipping, but no less intense.

When they separate, there is once again another rush of motion—hands once again pulling at his hair, nails scraping against his flesh, and the din of sex permeating the room, a mix of whimpers, moans, and names.

Rather unsurprisingly considering the night’s events, he is the first one to cum, voice graceless and hoarse and nails digging into pale thighs. Thankfully for his ego, however, both of his partners soon follow after. Though, he isn’t quite sure who cums first between the both of them, noisy as they are. Instead, he’s acutely of aware of the warmth spurting into his ass, and the droplets of cum dripping onto his face and neck—leftovers from Victor’s own orgasm.

Nonetheless, Victor is the first to shift, pushing himself carefully to the side before grabbing a tissue from the nearby nightstand. He presses it to Leon’s cheek, wiping away a bit of the cum.

“Sorry about that.” Victor is rather apologetic considering his earlier enthusiasm, and his cheeks flush from embarrassment, but it is at the very least, endearing, a bit sweet all things considering—a return to reality.

Another shift of the bed before Piers pulls out and moves to lie beside him, wordlessly curling against his side. He doesn’t think it would be all too comfortable to sleep in their current getup—the bedsheets are rather sticky as well, entirely in need of a change and a wash—but he assumes it is more of a temporary event, a brief respite from their previous exertion rather than tonight's permanency.

Nevertheless, he doesn’t complain when Victor nuzzles into side, arm draping over his chest.

There is a certain sweetness in everything, he thinks.

A bit odd perhaps, but Leon finds that he doesn’t mind as much as he should.

**Author's Note:**

> This all started because I wanted to take the prompt of "Lipstick stains." And why not DNNZKB instead since adult trio ship is incredibly popular? I've seen their tag. They aren't hurting at all for fics, and I won't break up Lance/Raihan in this house. And I'm biased towards DNMSNZ.
> 
> And why doesn't Piers take out his tongue piercing? He didn't have any piercing retainers on hand, and he didn't really want the hole to start closing up if he ended up busier afterwards. It really varies by person to person for how long it takes for a hole to start closing. For some, it's exceeding quick and for others, it takes a bit. That's the explanation anyway.
> 
> I decided to go with the characterization that I have because it's more interesting to me + I hate the whole "and in one sex scene, they solve all of their problems." This is a rather new relationship, and no one's gonna suddenly know everything about everyone else after one scene. That's why there are loose ends (I think so anyway). Furthermore, I wanted to go with a more complex view of sexuality rather than just making it to where Leon's bi but he prefers men. There's no "one" experience to sexuality, but I wanted to do my own take on it and not tie up every end.
> 
> Themes: Lipstick, "New," Gender presentation and interests, masculine and feminine
> 
> Cut Ideas and Scenes: Armpit licking and related fetish, more focus on chest and armpit hair, Scent kink, more aggression from Leon, more button-popping, more focus on the larynx, an incredibly terrible joke about pegging, Piers's choker being torn off
> 
> As an aside, the perfume's actually based on a real life perfume, and if you want to try figuring out the stockings Victor has, it's a $30 Italian and handmade brand. Similarly, the undergarments are some rather expensive ones.


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